


A Case in Asexuality

by Arika_the_Togepi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, F/M, Intrigue, John is fed up with bigoted people, LGBTA+ characters, M/M, Muder, shit goes down man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arika_the_Togepi/pseuds/Arika_the_Togepi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murders have been taking place around London and each one has been mysteriously linked to people of non-heterosexuality. Sherlock and John will take the case, but what secrets will be spilled as they discuss the goings on and only way to catch the murderer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which John is Worried

“Sherlock your phone is ringing.”

“Yes I know.”

“Then why won’t you answer it?”

“Because it’s all the way over there.”

It wasn’t really that far away. Only a metre or two from him it lay on the table, but it was closer to John than it was to Sherlock and, also, for Sherlock to get the phone himself he’d have to get up from his position of lying down on the sofa, which John should have known was simply not going to happen. Sherlock knew what would happen next and, of course, it did – John sighed and then reached over his laptop to grab the phone off the table.

“It’s from Lestrade. He says that he’s got a new case for you.”

Prior to these words Sherlock had not only been lying down on the sofa but he was also holding his violin to his chest with one arm and holding the bow in his other hand; eyes closed as though he was pondering perhaps what to play or if he should at all. The truth was that he was simply holding his violin to hold it, of course.

With the news, he opened his eyes and turned his head to face John, asking, “What’s it about?”

John scrolled up through some of the texts, taking longer than Sherlock thought it necessary to tell him who was murdered and how. “A man was killed in his home on Lymmington Drive – that’s a nice area, actually – no signs of struggle or breaking and entering-”

“Boring,” interrupted Sherlock las he aid his head back down on the sofa. He know John was glaring at him as he continued, “sister. Or brother. Possibly a distant cousin.”

John paused in his readings, “Not the wife?”

“No. Not the wife.” There was a quiet noise of keys being pressed as John typed out some form of reply to the Detective Inspector. There was a buzz as the man replied, and John continued typing.

“Lestrade says that Anderson thought it was the wife-”

“Well obviously, he’s an idiot.”

“-but the man has no siblings. According to his wife not only is he an only child, but both his parents are dead and the few cousins he has live in Australia and haven’t been to see him at all recently.”

Sherlock sat up immediately, pausing for only a moment on the sofa, with the violin in his hands before carefully setting the instrument in its case and standing to pull his signature jacket and scarf on. As he was walking through the door to the stairs he turned to John, “Well come on then! We’ve got a case!”

Sherlock walked back over to John, and pulling the phone from his hands he turned to go downstairs and hail a car. John muttered to himself but stood up with one last sip of his tea that would definitely be cold by the time he got home and grabbed his jacket. Pulling it on he followed his flatmate down the stairs and out the door.

~*~

As John had said earlier, the place was nice. A large house – for London, that is – surrounded by other nice sized houses and a designated car space. Lots of windows. Not the kind of place someone could easily sneak into and commit a murder.

Sherlock completely ignored the police tape around the area, walking quickly to the crime scene and leaving John to pay the driver. Anderson intercepted him on the way in with some kind of idiotic comment, but Sherlock didn’t react to it. John did, and he said something nasty to Anderson in retort, which is why Sherlock cared to remember it at all – he hadn’t been aware of when John had started standing up for him, but he certainly seemed to be doing it more and more often.

Filing that away for another time, Sherlock walked carefully into the living room. There was a fireplace to the left of him with an older model flat screen -wealthy, but not terribly so, upper middle class no children- Bookshelves on either side of the television were filled with different books, but they were all covered in a thin layer of dust -trying to look more intellectual than they are or possibly too busy to read- across from the fireplace was a sofa, fake leather -John doesn’t like leather or fake leather [bad taste]- Sherlock shook his head. Why did he think that? No matter, he continued: above the sofa was a large window that overlooked the road -not broken, well taken care of and cleaned [trying to look intellectual]-, no blinds or curtains -not worried about neighbours seeing them- which brought attention to the most obvious thing in the room, the body on the floor.

It was male, somewhat overweight though not obese; balding but carefully combed over to hide the worst of it. It was wearing an old and oversized t shirt with a few small holes in it and sweat pants -cares about his looks [combover] but not dressed properly, wasn’t leaving the house for a while – possibly all day. There was nothing overly wrong with the body. There was little blood anywhere but the head, no bruising or scratches anywhere along the skin Sherlock could see without getting closer. -no signs of struggle, which was supported by the fact of all the fragile knick knacks -expensive Ming vase look-alike, glass photo frames- none of them were broken or even knocked over.

The head was interesting however. Sherlock walked farther into the room, pushing a few people out of the way -Lestrade, the wife – and kneeled down next to the body. There was a small pool of dark blood right underneath the head, no blood on the face though -stabbed to the back of the head, face- he paused; the face was slack. Eyes closed, mouth closed, it seemed unlikely that the man would fall into the most sleeping looking position possible.

“Has someone tampered with it?” Sherlock asked impatiently, not looking away from the body, moving on to the other parts of body for clues to the motive of the murderer(s).

“With what?” Lestrade asked. “Nothing was moved, there was no struggle-”

“No, was it tampered with?” Sherlock nodded towards the body, glaring at Lestrade for his stupidity in not understanding.

“That’s my husband you-!” the wife started.

“I’m sorry ma'am, he’s not the most understanding person ever.” John explained in a placating voice. “But yes, he means the body. Have you touched or moved it at all?” he asked, moving to be closer to her, holding her eye contact. Sherlock didn’t think that John did it purposefully, but he implemented many of the best ways to get people to trust you when he wanted something from them. He was also apologising for Sherlock. Interesting.

“I might have closed his eyes and mouth. I- it took a while for you to get here, you know? And I had to sit in here and wait for you and-” she stopped talking to take a few deep breaths. It was obvious she was trying not to cry. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he knew John would berate him if he said anything, so he stopped himself.

Donovan started talking to the wife, trying to comfort her, and Sherlock noticed that Lestrade -uncomfortable, fidgeting, side stepping farther from crying woman [playing with ring, inside clean]- had had another fight with his own wife. Perhaps to ease his uncomfortableness, he began talking, “So what do you think Sherlock? Do you know who did it?”

Sherlock took another look at him, -shirt and pants well ironed, large bags under eyes [tired], hair combed but unclean [no shower] – Lestrade had been fighting with his wife but that wasn’t why he was so stressed. Instead there must have been something else going on. “There have been other murders.”

Lestrade looked at him, “How do you- never mind. Yes, there have, but they aren’t connected to this case.”

Sherlock disagreed, “You don’t know that. What is it?”

“They aren’t connected!”

“George.” Sherlock knew his real name of course.

This just annoyed him enough to- “For the last time, it’s Greg.But fine, I’ll tell you.” -get Lestrade to explain all. “There have been other murders, an anti-gay group has been killing in London and we’re trying to catch them, but we haven’t had much success. It’s not related though.”

“It is, actually,” Sherlock started.

Anderson cut in, “How do you figure? He has a wife!” Everyone turned to look at her. She started stuttering.

“He was asexual, actually. I assume Mrs. Carson wasn’t, considering the murderer didn’t wait to kill both of them.” Surprisingly, it was John who said this. When everyone looked confused at him (minus Sherlock of course) John added, “You know how the rainbow flag represents homosexuality? Well purple, white, black and gray represent asexuality.”

“How would you know that?” Anderson asked, but no one payed attention to him.

“I will need more information about the killings,” Sherlock told Lestrade. “I should have been called in earlier.”

“I didn’t think you’d care.” Lestrade mumbled. He continued, louder, “There have been six killings, seven including Mr. Carson here.”

Sherlock waited a fraction of a second before noticing Lestrade wasn’t going to continue. “I need more information.”

“The first four murders were all men, the fifth a female, and the sixth again a man.” John said, again surprising the others. Sherlock noted that he spoke with a cold and detached tone, the voice of Dr. Watson and not John. “All of them homosexuals and all of them were killed in their houses with little to no struggle. Each of them had partners at the time. Two of them were in civil unions, the others all in serious relationships. Ignoring the fact that Mr. Carson was asexual and not homosexual, he fits the bill perfectly.”

“How do you know that?” Anderson asked. “The Freak didn’t even know!”

“Firstly, don’t call him a freak. He’s more intelligent than your entire family.” Sherlock smirked internally at John’s words and the look on Anderson’s face. “Secondly, it was in the paper.”

Suddenly, Sherlock realised why John was acting the way he was. Looking once more around the crime scene, knowing he’d find little more information by staying he said, “Come on John.”

The wife – Mrs. Carson, he’d heard – said, “You’re right. He was asexual and-”

“Are you?” Lestrade asked.

“She isn’t.” Sherlock answered. John added, “And anyway, the partner’s haven’t been targeted. The people killed are in relationships with people that are bisexual, or heterosexual with an exception. She’s safe.”

The wife coughed, “Right, I want to say thank you. For doing every thing you can.”

John rubbed her shoulder comfortingly, “Of course. I would recommend staying with a relative,” when she looked at him with a little fear he added, “not because I think you’re in danger. Just to make yourself feel better.”

“I have a friend I can go stay with.”

“Go do that. We’ll be doing all we can.” And with that John turned and walked out of the room with an air of importance, not unalike the way Sherlock knew he and Mycroft walked. The only time Sherlock had seen him walk like that was when John was in medical Dr. Watson mode. Of course, Sherlock followed right after him with a curt nod to the wife.

“John,” Sherlock started as the man in question walked to the road to hail them a car.

“Not now Sherlock. Really not in the mood.”

A car stopped by the road and John opened the door, sliding across easily to the other side. Sherlock sat down and pulled the door shut as his flatmate said, “221B Baker Street.”

The driver pulled away from the pavement and they began their ride back to the flat quietly. Sherlock took out his phone and started texting, first his brother to ask for information about the murders, a few people in his network with mobiles, and to look up online about the news articles John had no doubt read.

“Your sister will be fine John.”

At first, Sherlock thought John was going to ignore him entirely. Then he said, “Fine? You’re telling me she’ll be fine?” He noted that John’s voice slowly rose in volume as he talked. “My sister is a gay alcoholic who, despite my warnings, will not go stay with our parents or anyone she knows outside of London and won’t even lock her door at night because she’s hoping her girlfriend – the most recent one, that is – will come back to her. She’s not a sitting duck, she’s a drunk one! She can’t protect herself when she’s sober and because of the break up she’s relapsed and-” John took a deep breath and when he began talking again his voice was quieter. “Sherlock, even you can not logically explain away my worries about her because they are entirely founded. Not to mention how much I worry about us and- well, I mean, I know your brother will be fine since I’m sure he can protect himself, and I’m pretty sure if it came to it you might be able to protect yourself-” John broke off, mumbling to himself, “so long as they didn’t tempt you with a case I suppose…”

“Why do you worry about us?” Sherlock knew that John’s frequent dates had each gone poorly, and he knew that John was most definitely interested in him when they were in that restaurant on the first case they had been together, but he didn’t think that John was really homosexual. Just that he might be an exception for the ex-army doctor. Wait…

“Not so much us, I suppose,” John was still mumbling and Sherlock had to work to understand him, “more you, I suppose. Not that I know if you’re asexual or anything but-”

He understood now. “You are worried about me.” John wouldn’t meet his eye.

“Those people were murdered, but I don’t think they’re punishing the homosexuals. I mean they are, but it’s more like their trying to help their partners, trying to put them back on the ‘right’ path, of heterosexuality that is. Which is stupid, or course, but-”

“You are worried they will think that I am homosexual, or asexual, and that we are dating. Everyone else thinks it, of course, and you are as anyone could say given your girlfriends heterosexual, bisexual at least. You think these murderers will try to kill me to put you on the 'right path’, as you put it.” Sherlock didn’t know how he felt about that deduction. He knew he was correct, it was easy enough to see the guilty and embarrassed look on John’s face. On one hand Sherlock had a weird feeling with the knowledge that John was worried about him and had made many possibly correct predictions and deductions of his own. On the other hand, Sherlock was faced with the predicament that they – him specifically – might be targeted by the murderers.

The first was weird and Sherlock didn’t have an immediate answer for it, so he decided to push it away and deal with it later – if he thought it warranted being dealt with – and the other needed no reaction. While deciding what to say to get rid of the slightly awkward feeling of the space he was in to make John feel more comfortable – and also wondering why he felt the need to do that, his phone buzzed.

Looking at it he got the confirmation from Mycroft he needed to continue texting other people and to say to John, “Don’t worry. About your sister that is. If the murderers are only targeting people in relationships with people they’re trying to help than your sister and her completely lesbian ex-girlfriend will be fine. And she’s being watched by the same people that watch us every day anyway..”

“Mycroft’s having my sister protected?” John was incredulous.

“Naturally.” Naturally because he had just asked for Harry to be protected, but John didn’t know that Sherlock had done that.

The car pulled up to their flat and John got out to pay while Sherlock went to the door and unlocked it. He didn’t look behind him when John asked, “And what about you?”

He replied, “I can protect myself when I want to John.”

John’s mumbled were barely audible this time, but Sherlock still heard him say, “That’s what I’m worried about… The 'when I want to’ part.”


	2. In Which Sherlock Explains

That night had gone as usual for the occupants of 221B. Sherlock immediately sat on the sofa and, with John’s laptop, began researching as much as he could about the new killer. Said laptop owner groaned when he saw this, but he knew complaining would be of little consequence; instead he went to the kitchen and made himself dinner.

Sherlock knew that John left a little food in a pot on the stove for him to eat, but he also knew John didn’t really expect him to eat it. He just wanted to get out of washing the dishes for the night. John ate with some bad telly and Sherlock continued postulating, contacting those who might be able to help him, looking up facts about the target people and their partners, so on and so forth. John went to bed soon after he ate.

All in all, very usual. Well, except for at 2 am. Sherlock suddenly had an idea, and he ran upstairs to tell his flatmate about it. John was, of course, asleep; this didn’t make him falter. “John! John wakeup!”

“No! I don’t care if someone’s here to kill us just, just give ‘em some tea and tell them we can talk about it later,” mumbled John as he turned over, hiding his face underneath the blankets.

“What? No one’s here to kill us, not yet anyway.” Sherlock exclaimed, “come on John! We need to talk!” There were more mumbled from the lump under the blankets, but no real words or sentences were being conveyed. Eventually Sherlock became impatient, “Get up John! We need to start dating!”

“Wha- what?” Sherlock noticed that John had not been sleeping well -rumpled hair, still lightly damp [showered before bed, tossed and turned]; bags under eyes, phone on bedside table within reach, [girlfriend broke up with John {stupid, idiotic, bumbling slut}]- and that his girlfriend must have broken up with him. Wonderful.

“Sherlock what?” John was sitting up now, wide eyed but -he’s yawned- still very tired. “We can’t start dating!”

“Why ever not?” Sherlock asked. “I’ve worked it all out. It’s the best possible plan to-”

“Look, I’m flattered and all but- no. I just-”

“It’s the perfect plan John! Listen-”

“Sherlock,” the named man looked at his flatmate, annoyed. Why wouldn’t John just listen to him? He kept cutting off his brilliance and it made him feel annoyed. Not disappointed that John didn’t want to listen to his great idea or that he didn’t want to help him with it, but annoyed. Clearly. John kept talking, “no. Just no, okay? We can talk about whatever this is tomorrow. I’m tired, I’m sure you’re tired, and you’re not making sense. Go to sleep.”

“I don’t need to sleep.” Sherlock knew he sounded affronted, “I will get my required hours in a brief time. You need to listen to me!”

“And I will, once I’ve had some sleep and whatever you’ve put into your system has had time to be released from or be processed by or no longer has effect on your body.” With that John pushed Sherlock off of his bed who, given the feelings he didn’t completely understand were starting to build up in him at John’s words, decided he would go have a good sulk before talking to John again.

~*~

Sherlock heard John as he woke up -creaking wood, high pitched squeak not a groan [getting off right side of bed, shoulder hurts]; immediately downstairs for a shower, forgot to set tea kettle [tired, avoiding flatmate]. While John was in the shower, Sherlock turned the kettle on and set John’s favourite cup on the counter with the correct mixture for his tea -two spoons of tea mix, one of sugar and a small dash of milk [won’t admit to wanting milk, must put in fridge]- before putting bread in the toaster and pushing down.

John will shower [15 min, 20 with shoulder pain] and then he’ll need to get changed back upstairs, find clothes, put on [15-20 min] but because of his shoulder pain he’d have already picked out his clothes and taken them downstairs takes longer to get dressed in steamy bathroom and with pain but has already picked out clothes [10-15 min] meaning he had just over a half hour to prepare John’s breakfast. Waiting on the kettle for the tea and the toaster for the buttered toast John liked to eat in the morning, Sherlock set about clearing off the table.

There were some experiments he had that distracted him for a few moments -blood on leather smells highly of rust, day 3, half congealed, leather is cold. Blood on cotton has spread out completely, little to congeal, also day 3- but he did his best to stay on task. Some of the beakers couldn’t be moved, but most of the clutter contained papers and old experiments that Sherlock no longer needed.

The shower turned off while Sherlock was buttering the toast, having already mixed the hot water and tea. The table could not be cleared off as much as Sherlock had first believed, but he was able to move things around so that John’s seat at the head of the table was clean and wiped down.

The only definitely clean plate Sherlock could find was chipped on the right -John knocked a beaker of algae onto the plate when he slipped on blood Sherlock had left on the floor- but he continued to put the toast onto it. The tea was hot and placed to the upper right of the plate, a side of sliced uncooked mushrooms on one side of the plate -John eats mushrooms as Mycroft eats cake [I don’t know why, they’re disgusting {cake is to}].

He had about ten minutes until John appeared from the bathroom fully dressed, tired, not wanting to talk to Sherlock and expecting to start the kettle. Sherlock placed himself in his normal position on the sofa, except for the fact that he had his phone in his hands. He texted his brother, telling him to tell the hospital that John worked at that he couldn’t come in to work today for some kind of valid excuse. Mycroft wanted to know why he was being made to do this, but Sherlock refused to give him an explanation, simply saying that if he didn’t do it, Sherlock would tell mummy about the you-know-what and yes, he totally would do it.

With everything settled, Sherlock settled himself into the sofa, hands together under his chin with his head back and eyes closed. Just at that moment John walked into the room -slow gate, leg hurting [unlikely] or avoiding Sherlock [likely]. When John had his back to Sherlock, as to prepare his tea, Sherlock said, “Already on the table,” without changing his position. He knew that John threw a skeptical look his way, but he walked towards the table anyway. Sherlock heard a pause in his walking when he saw the food laid out for him, and John turned around, “What’s all this then?”

Sherlock stood up in a fluid movement, “I wish to help you in your time of illness.”

“Pardon?” John was, somewhat understandably for a plebeian, confused. Sherlock pushed him towards his chair, motioning for him to sit.

“Given you are too ill too go into work today, I thought I would make you breakfast.”

“Sherlock what are you- wait, you didn’t, did you?” There was a small pause, “No, of course you did. Look if this has anything to do with last night, just forget about it, alright? I have no idea what was going on but-”

“You do not understand. I wish to…apologise.” Sherlock was holding in the mean comments about John’s intellect that were trying to force their way out of him. “For last night.”

“Oh. Okay. An explanation would be nice to you know; we’re not all geniuses.” John said, somewhat placated with the breakfast. He took a sip of his tea and, though he said nothing, Sherlock knew from the look on his face that he had gotten the tea mixture correct, though, of course he had. He began eating the toast while Sherlock began talking.

“I realised that I might not have… Completely explained myself about which I was speaking. I… Had an idea of how to lure out the killer from his hiding place, and I wished to tell you as it will require your compliancy. In my haste I did not fully describe the… Predicament.” Again, it was hard for Sherlock to place into words what he was trying to say. The words were almost a full apology, which Sherlock was not good at at all.

“You mentioned wanting to date me?” John asked, somewhat jokingly. He was starting on his second piece of toast and seemed to be accepting that Sherlock had cancelled his work for the day.

“Yes. As you mentioned the killers have been targeting people in relationships with a person who can be, as you rightly put it, 'saved’. As you have said, my brother can take care of himself. We know few other non-heterosexuals, so we must become the bait ourselves. If we begin dating, then we can use that to attract their attention.”

“But they aren’t attacking people in new relationships Sherlock. If they are trying to save one of the people in the relationship, then a new romance that has a low chance of getting past a few month stage doesn’t seem a likely target.”

Sherlock had not taken this into account. He was not the best when it came to relationships, and while he knew the percentage likelihood of a new relationship lasting, ]the numbers were not good. “What if I propose?”

“Sherlock, no. Despite how secretive you may be, I am not; people are going to know that we weren’t dating. It means I would have been cheating on Miranda! And probably Caitlin!”

“Whom?”

“My last two girlfriends?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock’s great idea had been shot down. With logic and reason no less. From John. Ugh. But more importantly, than the fact that he was- nothing; what were they going to do now?

“Sherlock?”

“Quiet John. I need to think.” Sherlock began pacing, from one end of the kitchen to the other, in front of John as he watched. -What if Lestrade- no, of course not [married] he noted that John had eaten the food he’d made him, including most of the mushrooms -Anderson- no, he’s too idiotic; he’d screw up and also I don’t want to work with him or put him in charge of John-

“Aargh!” Sherlock struck out a hand and knocked over his blood samples, quickly thinking to catch them before they hit the ground, carefully placing them back on the table.

“Sherlock? Maybe if you talk out loud, I might be able to be of some help. Thanks, by the way. For the breakfast.”

“I doubt it,” he was being mean, unnecessarily, and he knew it. “We need a non-heterosexual pairing between someone who is 'irredeemable’ and someone who is 'redeemable’. As you have said we are not a suitable relationship. There is no one else people would believe I was in a relationship with. Lestrade is married, Anderson is an idiot, a Donovan-Molly relationship would be frankly terrible. Mycroft would never allow anything bad to happen to someone he was in a relationship with, and anyway he isn’t in one at the-” he stopped.

Sherlock’s thoughts flew quickly, smoothing out all the kinks in his new plan and how he would be able to get everyone involved to agree. Mycroft -blackmail to tell mummy, wouldn’t be able to use for anything else [ugh I worked hard for that]- John -agreeable at the moment, possibly not considering [Mycroft]. John’s ex girlfriend’s -won’t be contacted, left town- “I have it!”

“What?”

Sherlock ran to John and paced short lines in front of him. “I’ve worked it out! You must date Mycroft!”


End file.
